Cold Flames
by Flameses
Summary: Whatever pops into my head-based oneshots! Christmas special though not so Christmasy : Jack Frost. They call me Frost. Jack Frost. For a while, that’s all I could remember. Before that, nothing. In response to a challenge from Cordria. Angsty.
1. Destrier

**Hi! **

**Here starts the beginning of what I hope will be many, many oneshots (or maybe twoshots). I night not update this very often, but I write something when it pops into my head.**

**I was at the fair the other day. It was pretty fun, but one thing that always makes me so mad is when they have those freak show thingies. There's one I see every year: Sampson the giant horse. Ever seen one of those tents? Just ticks me off, the poor horse. I couldn't remember what the recording said exactly (yes, there really is one) so I kinda ad-libbed a little. Also, sorry to any horse lovers out there if I messed up what a horse does when they're frightened, etc. I'm not big on that kinda thing. And for all you Sampsons out there, if you're reading this, this is my twist on your story...**

* * *

**Destrier**

* * *

"_Come in and see the largest mare in the world! For only 5 dollars, you can stare in awe at Delilah, standing at over 7 feet tall! I'll say it again, the largest mare in the world!"_

The mare snorted within the confines of the hot, smelly tent. Sure, she was large, and she was grand, but surely female Clydesdales were about the same size. Or so she'd heard.

The voice continued.

"_Delilah weighs over 2,700 pounds, and consumed at least 52 pounds of fresh hay and oats, and drinks more than 25 gallons of water a day! Come all, folks, and see the giant mare!" _

Whinnying, the mare tried to pace around the tent. There wasn't enough room.

As always.

Delilah gave the horse equivalent of a sigh. She wanted out of there. Running in an open field was only a hope; she hadn't done that since she was a foal.

And what was that about the hay and oats? They never fed her _fresh_ hay. Much less oats. The hay was always old and filthy; the water slimy.

They underfed her, too. They only reason visitors couldn't see her ribs was because of some strange powder they dumped into her…_food_…every morning…

Delilah's thoughts were much like the recording, repeating over and over, day after day, month after month, year after year.

But, sadly, all things must come to an end, as no horse can stand that kind of treatment for long. In short, Delilah got sick.

They didn't bother giving her medicine. They kept showing off their "freakishly large horse", of course, for a fee.

Eventually, Delilah just lay down in the dirt, half-dead, twitching every once and a while. They took her out of the tent and put her in a small stall.

One day, a man walked in. He calmly put a gun to the center of her forehead. He pulled the trigger, and Delilah knew no more.

* * *

Delilah stood up. She was alive again? No, wait, she wasn't.

She glanced around, tossing her head proudly from side to side.

Everywhere she looked was colored with swirls of green, purple, and black.

Turning around, she caught a glimpse of her black coat. It was glossy; no more would she put up with a mangy coat!

"Well, look what we have, here," said a deep voice from behind her.

Delilah turned again.

Standing there was a metal man. Green flames shot up out of his head, much like a mane, and also around his chin. His eyes, also green, narrowed as he looked her up and down.

"It's not often that one finds do magnificent a beast in the Ghost Zone. Pity. Your pelt will look quite nicely on my wall," he chuckled.

Delilah almost backed away in fear. But she didn't. Her instincts screamed otherwise. She couldn't keep this up for long.

"Halt!" ordered another voice.

Both the metal one and Delilah turned.

"Don't interfere, Fright Knight. This is my quarry, my hunt!" he roared.

The Fright Knight, purple fire surrounding his black helmet, had no intention of doing what the metal man asked.

"I am afraid not, Skulker, as this here is quite a fine mare, and I will put her to much better use than thee."

The metal one, now Skulker, growled in defeat.

"You want her? Halt this!"

With that, Skulker fired a missile at Delilah and flew away, cursing loudly.

She whinnied fearfully. But it never reached her. The Fright Knight was in front of her, holding up a black and purple shield to deflect the projectile. It hit with a _ping _and dropped harmlessly to the ground.

The Knight turned to face her, bright green eyes softening.

"May I have the honor of riding thee, O magnificent one?"

The mare dipped her head in acknowledgement. He snapped his armored fingers, and a saddle appeared on her back, along with a bridle and other tack. It fit perfectly.

He swiftly mounted, and, as he did so, she felt a change.

Her flesh seemed to phase through her skin, leaving only skin, bones, and raw muscle. Great, batlike wings erupted from her shoulders. Fangs popped through her gums in place of flat molars. A single horn of bone grew up where the man had shot her, now what seemed like so long ago. Her eyes gleamed a brilliant purple, and flames of the same color burst into being around her hooves and mane.

She reared, loving her new strength and power, pawing at the air.

The Fright Knight leaned forward in the saddle, stroking her face.

"We shall rule together, my beloved steed," he crooned.

"My… Nightmare."

* * *

**Thanks for reading, please tell me what you think!**

**Mom: What are you doing on the computer? I told you to get to bed an hour ago! You have school in the morning!  
**

**Me: cringe Oops, sorry, Mom, lost track of time, doing... something! Yes! Something! Nothing you need to come over here about! updates quickly and turns of the computer**

**Mom: ...?**

**-Flaming Water :)**

* * *


	2. Prank

**In school, we watched a little slide show with pictures of the crash. There was a song, too, but I can't remember what it's called. It was that one that went: "I'm just a singer of simple songs, I'm not a real political man..." I really like that song, but it brings me really close to crying every time. This is the try to lighten the mood a little... Aw, it didn't work. I'm gonna go cry (seriously).  
**

* * *

**Prank**

* * *

"Do I have to do it?" Bertrand whined.

"Yeah," Ember said. "It's your turn to pull the prank. Come on! It'll be so funny!"

"And imagine his distress when he finds out that he misses his flight! Delicious!" Spectra added, licking her lips.

Amorpho had never figured out why she dragged Bertrand along everywhere. Sure, he was a shape shifter, like himself, but very low caliber. Nothing compared to what he could do.

Ember glanced over at the Ghost Writer. He was, as usual, writing away, working on his next 'masterpiece'. "You're never any fun, Ghost Writer! What are you writing now?" she asked.

"A tragedy," he said, not looking up.

"Aw, so sad," Amorpho finally said. "I'll do it. I love this sort of thing. Hmmm... What form would be best?"

"Ooh, you should totally do this whole 'angel of death' thing!" Spectra offered.

"No," Ember said. "Go as yourself. You're already kinda creepy."

It was true. Amorpho had no face, unless he transformed into something else. The long overcoat and gloves didn't help. Over his eyes, he wore red glasses, made even redder by his crimson irises shining through, and a hat. He straightened said hat, chuckling, and, trying to keep a straight face, faded into invisibility and floated away.

* * *

Sitting in the airport by his terminal, the man sighed.

He was really bored, having read his newspaper four times already. He had accidentally come three and a half hours early, and had decided not to leave, as it was quite a long drive to the airport from his house.

His eyes flicked up to look at the the date, listed by the flight times. SEPTEMBER 11, 2001, it read. He glanced at his watch and groaned. Another hour!

Defeated by the lack of excitement, he picked up the paper and settled down to read it yet again.

After a while, he felt a...presence. He looked up from paper, and, seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, kept reading.

He felt it again. He looked up again, annoyed.

Standing there was a very strange character. He was a little transparent, and had no face.

_Wait, no face?_ He thought.

He stared at the...person, waiting for them to speak. It stood there for a few seconds more, then, in a nasal voice, spoke.

"Don't get on the flight."

"What?"

"Don't get on the flight."

He blinked, and the mysterious figure was gone.

_You're just really, really, bored_, he thought. _Your mind is just making stuff up to entertain you. _

"Don't get on the flight, ha ha, very funny. What a load of bullshit," he mumbled.

He read more of the paper. _Wait_, he thought. _What if that was some kind of angel or something? Maybe I shouldn't get on the flight. Then again, it is an important flight, and I can't miss it... _

He began to panic. _What if something happens when I'm on the flight? Oh my god, I think that really was an angel. Thank you, angel with no face!_

His thoughts progressed slowly, and by the time he had come to a conclusion, he had missed his flight.

* * *

Amorpho became visible when he reached his friends.

Ember was in tears. "That was hysterical! Did you see that look on his face when you told him not-to get on..." Her voice trailed off; she was now shaking with silent laughter.

Spectra said, "Good job, a very good job, indeed, Amorpho."

"Always a pleasure," he replied.

Bertrand merely hung behind Spectra.

* * *

The Ghost Writer looked up, watching them have their fun. Little did they know, but they had just saved that man's life.

_All a part of the master plan_, he thought grimly.

His eyes lowered back down to his work. A tragedy, he had said. He sighed and got back to writing.

It was only the beginning of his little...story.

* * *

**May the souls of the faithfully departed,**

**through the mercy of God,**

**rest in peace.**

_**Amen.**_


	3. Hunt

**Wow another creation fic. I really like writing those. I always wonder- "Where did this ghost come from? How did he/she/it die? Why? Hmmm. Oh well. Sorry for all the line breaks. I change time and perspective a lot in this one. Enjoy!**

**Oh, and thanks to penned gold (anon) for reminding me. It is based off "The Most Dangerous Game**" **by Richard Connell. My English I Honors class just read it in class too! I read it and thought- Hunting? Reminds me of Skulker... And off it went! Thanks again!**

* * *

**Hunt**

* * *

"Quite a lovely evening, isn't it?" commented the man as he lounged in the deck chair.

"No," replied the younger man, adjusting his position on the rail of the ship.

"Why ever not?" asked the first man, looking up at the second.

"Don't you feel it? That chill in the air?" said the younger, staring out into the pitch black night, his light brown hair shifting in the light wind.

The older man was confused. Sure, it was a little cool, but nothing like the other was describing. He shook his head. "You've been listening to the sailors too much. Sailors and their lore-"

"Never mind," interrupted the brown haired man. He walked away.

* * *

On the other deck of the ship, the young man leaned against the railing, contemplating. Why didn't Smithson feel it? The older man had always seemed very wise to him. Then again, his family had always said that he was sensitive to things others were dumb to.

"Evening, Jon," came a gruff voice out of the darkness.

John turned, flashing a grim smile as he recognized the figure.

"Hey, Ricky," he greeted. The sailor was one of his acquaintances on the ship. Jon noticed that Ricky, too, seemed preoccupied.

"You feel it, too?" he asked.

"Yes. We, the sailors, all do. We know the lore."

"Have we passed the island yet?"

"In this gloom, it's hard to tell. But because I still feel this way, I would say no, we haven't."

Jon sighed. He wouldn't be able to sleep until they passed Rockring Island. Noticing his sudden silence, the sailor began to leave.

"Well, see you along, Jon," he said, and walked off to the other sailors.

* * *

Jon slowly spaced out, leaning closer and closer to the water, not realizing it, until the ship's bell rang out.

Startled, he slipped on the rail, slick with fog, and plunged into the icy water.

* * *

He gasped, water was all around him. He fought hard to keep his head above the surface, failing every once and a while as he paddled slowly forward. He didn't know where he was going. He faintly remembered the boat going this way, but the current had spun him around several times. A dark, blurry shape popped out of the night in front of him. He pulled himself up, gasping, onto the rocky shore. His brain faintly registered a high, alien scream far off on the distance.

He staggered to the forest, and collapsed. He immediately succumbed to the deep reaches of sleep.

* * *

"Ah, our visitor is waking," said a deep voice. "Harb! Get some food. And clothes."

Jon sat up, rubbing his eyes. He opened them.

Before him was a man of forty-some years, with black hair and hazel eyes. He wore very nice clothes, ironed and pressed, Jon noted.

The strange man spoke again. "Welcome, young one, to my humble island. I am Peter Wheryr."

Looking around, Jon saw many fine animal heads on the walls, and, being an amateur hunter himself, was very impressed.

"May I have your name?" Jon was pulled out of his reverie.

"Oh, sorry, it's Jon. Jon Lancaster."

"Pleasure to meet you, Jon Lancaster."

"The same," Jon replied. "Sorry if this is sudden, but that's quite a fine collection you have there."

"Oh, yes, I do consider myself a great hunter. It is my favorite pastime. But, after a long time, hunting began to bore me. I have hunted every animal in the world. There was no challenge anymore, no danger. I needed something else to hunt, for hunting is my life! So, I invented a new animal to hunt. One that could match my skills, strength, and one more trait: it must have reason."

Jon interrupted. "But, sir, no animal has reason."

The hunter looked at Jon, a wicked smile playing across his features. "But, Jon, there is one that can."

It dawned on him. He gasped. "That's murder!"

Peter was still smiling as he said, "By the time I'm done with you, you will have a far different mindset, I assure you."

Jon furrowed his eyebrows, perplexed.

"Whatever do you mean?" he started to say, but something hit him in the back of the head, and everything went black.

* * *

Peter Wheryr chuckled as he gazed upon the still figure of the young man upon the floor. He liked to talk to himself, so he did so.

"What a fine young man. Shows promise as a hunter. It looks as if that new drug I developed will do the job. After the next day, the effects will become permanent and the value of human life will be nothing to him. Just like me! Ha ha! Some intelligent company. I'll test him tomorrow night. Harb! Put him into the Blue Room. He'll sleep until he is... complete."

* * *

Jon tossed and turned, twisting the sheets. He didn't notice this, of course. He was fighting a losing battle in his mind. A battle with his conscience, and with a drug that would change his life.

He felt everything he ever knew slip away, memories, people, places, even his beliefs. As Peter said over him, he was losing his value for human life.

He struggled a bit more, then gave up, and fell into a deep pit of unfeeling.

* * *

"It worked- almost perfectly," Peter said to himself.

"I won't call him Jon, though, who knows what that will do. The first hunt was magnificent. He was like a beast, but one with much intelligence. He stalked that mangy sailor perfectly. When the time came to end it, he didn't hesitate. He calmly lifted the pistol and shot. But... He's a little too unfeeling. He's silent. Well, he doesn't talk much. I guess he's not that unfeeling, not when I look at the other feelings. The look on his face during the hunt was one of concentration, but there was also a strange... glee in doing it. You are a genius, Wheryr! You have made a killer."

* * *

And so it went on.

The new hunter hunted and killed his victims effortlessly. And what joy it brought him! The look on the prey's face... Priceless!

He loved it. He couldn't remember anything from his past life, but the didn't seem to care.

He didn't even remember his sweetheart, the one to whom he had promised that he would return soon.

* * *

She was, in fact, looking for him.

It had been over a year since Jon Lancaster had disappeared off of the ship near Rockring Island.

It was night. She knew that the ship was close to the island, as she could feel it. She could feel _him_. Jon was on the island, she knew it!

Out of the gloom, she saw the island. As the ship got nearer, she noticed something. What was in the water surrounding the island?

Where those... rocks?

She cried out in alarm as the ship crashed into the rocks. She was flung headlong into the sea, and she floated to shore.

* * *

When she woke up, an indescribable feeling came over her. To try, it was if something was after her.

Suddenly terrified, she ran into the forest, branches whipping her face, leaves crunching underfoot. As she ran, she turned, trying to get a glimpse of what she knew was after her. Seeing nothing, she turned back, only to run headlong into _him_.

She looked up at him, terror splashed across her face. It turned to shock as she realized that it was...

"Jon?" she asked, voice trembling.

A sick smile distorted his features as he said, "He calls me Skulker now."

He calmly lifted his twenty-two and shot her, in the middle of her forehead.

He heard something in the bush, behind him. He whirled around and shot into the leaves.

He heard a grunt.

He shot again.

A groan.

Then a shaking gun poked out of the plant, and before Skulker could move, Ricky shot his old friend in the heart.

The sailor died as he did, three bodies there, in the woods.

* * *

Deep in the mysterious realm known as the Ghost Zone, a will manifested.

Two bright green eyes opened, and a little blob of ectoplasm stood. It mumbled to itself something unintelligible, then shouted loudly, voice echoing through the air.

"I am Skulker, the Ghost Zone's greatest hunter!"

Looking down at it's body, it continued:

"Once I build myself a new form, you will all fear me, and everyone shall pay! I need to pay someone a visit. His pelt will soon be tacked upon my wall."

* * *

**Ahhh... So...tired... going to bed now... goodnight!**

**Flaming Water**


	4. Date

**Sorry for the long wait! Been very very busy. Sorry if it's a little short, but it's just an idea I had to get out of my head. **

**Oh, yeah, **_him_** and ****him (in bold) are two different hims.****  
**

* * *

**Date**

* * *

"BEE-DE-DE-DEEEP! BEE-DE-DE-DEEEP! BEE-DE-DE-DEE-"

The alarm was cut short by her slamming her hand down upon the SNOOZE button.

She went back to her book; hopefully she would have a few more minutes to read before-

"Sammykins! It's 5 o'clock, dear! He should come to pick you up in about an hour, sweetcakes!" came her mother's voice.

Sam sighed and, regrettably, put her bookmark- a bat, wings upraised in an intimidating gesture, with deep purple eyes- between the pages, marking her spot. She pushed herself off of her bed.

Sighing again, she mumbled, "Ugh. Another date with _him_. Ever since my parents realized that **he** wasn't coming back, they immediately picked _him_ up. All because of politics. I HATE POLITICS!!!" she suddenly screamed.

Her parents couldn't hear of course, she had secretly sound-proofed her room so she could listen to as much of that "horribly screechy emo-screamo music," as her father put it, as she wanted. Sadly, it didn't work the other way around.

She looked around for something to wear. Eyes sighting upon the appropriate clothing, she grabbed it and began to dress.

She had almost given up, with her parents finding suitors for her, that is, almost. She had some fight in her, yet.

She put on a pair of worn blue jeans, zipping and buttoning. Over a white tank top she pulled another worn garment- a white t-shirt with a red oval in the middle. She had snuck into **his** house after **he** disappeared to get some of **his** stuff, grabbing the jeans and shirt on the way out the window.

After brushing her hair and applying her usual makeup, Sam sat back down upon her bed to wait. And read, of course.

It didn't seem like any time at all when her mother yelled from the bottom of the stairs, "Sammykins! He's here!"

Sam put the book down and walked to her door, saying, "Coming!" And then under her breath, "I can't wait to see _his_ face when _he_ sees this, that bastard…"

She went down the stairs, ignoring the smiles on her parents' faces turn to scowls when they saw what she wore.

Head held high, she opened the front door, this time analyzing every detail of _his_ expression.

Tucker's pleasant expression, too, turned sour when _he_ saw her apparel. She brushed past _him_, mouth set in a hard line to hide her glee.

"Come on, Foley," she said, "I don't want this to take longer that it has to."

When she was sure _he_ couldn't see her face, she allowed a brief smirk to play across the features.

Making sure _he_ could hear, only faintly, she muttered, "Asshole."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! **

**Oh, and just to clarify if you haven't already figure it out- **_him _**is Tucker and him (in bold) is Danny.**

**-Flaming Water**


	5. Jack Frost

**I have accepted Cordria's challenge: Write and interesting drabble about sitting at a table and doing nothing. This is my response to said challenge. Well, he's not at a table, but he is sitting there, doing nothing but thinking. If it didn't work, sorry, I tried.**

* * *

**Jack Frost**

* * *

They call me Frost. Jack Frost.

For a while, that's all I could remember. Before that, nothing.

I woke up in an alleyway with nothing. No name, no life. Just a strange teenage boy with the power to manipulate ice. And fly. And turn invisible and intangible and many other things.

Groaning and sitting up, I had put up a hand to touch the coldness upon my face. Looking at the icy crystallized substance on my glove clad hand, I realized that it was frost.

_Jack Frost_, said the depths of my mind with a chuckle. Was it some sort of joke? I pondered this for a moment. But that was all I knew, so Jack Frost was what I stayed.

There was a sort of bliss that came from not knowing who one was. Nothing to tie one down. No regrets, no anxiety. I guess there was a sort of loneliness in not having a home or a family, but I was used to it. Looking back, I realize that there was a feeling of abandonment. Of loss.

But I didn't know why!

That's all I could think about for a long time. Why? Did someone leave me? Did they not care about me? Why did they leave me, cold and alone, with nothing but a fairy tale for a name? I had no food, no water. But did I need those things? I couldn't remember. Something told me I didn't need them in this form, something about ghosts. Something about a Phantom. Capitalized. What? Was I a ghost? Did I… die?

Then, I figured some of it out.

I died. But they just went on with their lives like I never existed! They didn't care that I died. They left me an amnesiac ghost, for they don't remember me. If no one of the 'real' world sees fit to honor my memory, why should I? Those snippets of information I get are passing thoughts of me. Then they forget, yet again.

I remember howling to the sky, green waves of sound catching the rooftops and bringing them hurtling to the ground. Why, I screamed, Why did they forget me? As the waves faded, I felt tears in my eyes. But I did not let them run down my face. I still don't. I cry silently, keeping it all locked up inside.

Someone remembers me. I came to that realization one snowy morning. Someone remembers me, or I would fade away into the void of nothingness. How I longed for that void. How I long for it now!

My mindset changed then.

I didn't want to be remembered anymore. I wanted to leave this despicable town their memories tie me to. Said memories are still only but passing thoughts. Depending on their strength, my fate could go either way. If they forgot entirely, I could sink away in to pure, peaceful nothing. If they called for me, wanted me, really remembered me, I could come out of this half-remembered daze and protect them once more. Had I been their protector? I hear their screams and feel some forgotten urge to fight, to protect, rising within me.

But they hated me. Why would I save the people who wanted me dead and gone? Would the half-remembered me have done that?

Whether I had or hadn't, I couldn't move from this spot. The difference between forgetting and remembering is me. Stuck in one desolate alleyway that no one ever travels through. If they did, they wouldn't see me, for I am not there, yet there, at the same time.

And so I sit, staring into space, with nothing but my nonexistent memories.

* * *

**Yep, thanks for reading.**

**Merry Christmas! (to all those who celebrate)**

**To you who don't:**

**Happy Hanukkah!**

**Happy Kwanza!**

**Happy Ramadon!**

**Did I miss anything?**

**Happy Whateveritisyoucelebrate!**

**-Flaming Water  
**


End file.
